


Mutual Profusion of Good Feeling (aka Wherein the Aliens have a Flair for Mood Lighting)

by kayliemalinza



Series: Rambleverse [44]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Aliens Make Them Do It, Glitter is a Plot Point, Kayliemalinza's Rambleverse, M/M, Pike's Reclaimed Captaincy (Rambleverse Timeline)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is a brat, Pike is resigned yet wily, and the aliens have a flair for mood lighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutual Profusion of Good Feeling (aka Wherein the Aliens have a Flair for Mood Lighting)

**Author's Note:**

> In my headcanon, Pike recovers after the movie and regains captaincy of the _Enterprise_. Jim is third in command.

The altar is some monolithic stone jutting upwards nearly twenty feet and Jim worries that they'll have to do this at the top. What little of the altar surface he can see from the ground is flat and narrow and while Jim isn't afraid of heights, exactly, having sex up there without safety precautions seems like a bad idea.

That's the only thing holding him back, really. It's a nice day out, with the three suns chasing each other across the sky and the wind sweeping in, warm and peppery, from far-off ochre mountains. The altar is high enough that they'd be little more than angled smudges up there and sound might not carry this far down. It'd be private enough.

Given a few more minutes Jim might be willing to proceed without safety precautions. The nostalgia's getting to him; he remembers having sex in a field in Iowa, just far enough from the highway that the cars sounded like wind and only the clouds could see their naked bodies. Jim is homesick, suddenly, remembering how his girlfriend laughed when the clouds opened up and splattered her belly with raindrops, like freckles. Her name was Jeanine. Jim hasn't found a pair of collarbones quite as beautiful as hers since.

Jim folds that memory carefully along the well-worn creases and tucks it away again. He looks over at Pike, really looks at him, the way you should before sex. Pike isn't a townie and this isn't a bar, but Jim will still pretend that Pike is the only person in the world. It's an effective technique and besides that, common courtesy (or should be, at least.)

Pike doesn't notice. He's staring at the top of the altar, too, eyes crinkled against the sunlight. "I'm not thrilled at the prospect of falling to my death mid-coitus," he says, more to the alien priestess than to Jim. He hasn't said much of anything to Jim, really, not since he took him aside to whisper that he didn't see a good way of getting out of this and Jim answered, _I'm game if you are, sir._

The priestess blinks her second pair of eyes slowly, like a smile. "There is an enclosure at the base of the altar," she says. "We do not wish to harm you unduly."

Pike snorts at that and looks at the ground to hide it, digging his fingers into the soft skin around his mouth.

Jim knows he'll get a glare if he says anything now, but he wants to put an arm around Pike's shoulders and say, _Go with the flow, Chris. It's not so bad. They don't want us to die and everyone here smells so nice._ It's true. The priestess has a sort of citrusy scent and one of her attendants smells like a honeywheat bun, crust cracked open and steaming. Jim is acting dopey, sure, but he's just susceptible to aromatherapy, is all. He's been on a spaceship for a little too long and wants nothing more than to roll around on some genuine grass.

The priestess bows her head at them and unfurls her arm, a graceful straightening of all three elbows. "Follow me," she says. She moves backward, the hem of her robe slipping cleanly over the grass.

Pike straightens his back and tugs down his uniform shirt like he's been called before the Admiralty and at that, Jim has to say something. It's getting unfair.

"I was serious when I said I was game for this," he murmurs, falling into step beside Pike and wandering so close that their elbows brush.

"From what I've seen, you're game for anything," Pike murmurs back.

Jim should be hurt by that but he just grins, curling his fingers into the hollow of Pike's palm. "Some things more than others," he says. "Let's think about this logically, ok?" Pike chose Spock as his XO so clearly he appreciates logic. "We can do this and have it be really awkward," says Jim, "or we can have it be really hot. I vote for hot," he adds unnecessarily.

Pike turns his head to give Jim his customary _what the hell is wrong with your brain?_ expression but Jim just smiles back, eyes wide and eyebrows lifted up to say _hey, I'm not wrong, am I?_ After a second Pike breaks down and laughs. It's a respectable chuckle, more than the sardonic huff Jim expected, but Pike also pulls his hand away so Jim doesn't know if he's won yet. He leans in again to rest his palm in the small of Pike's back, fingertips edging underneath the gold hem of his shirt. Pike slows his stride for a second and slips out of reach, pulling Jim in front of him. He firmly holds him there and straight-arms when Jim tries to turn around or lag.

That's a tentative _no_ on 'really hot,' then, but Pike's hand is warm and broad in the crook of his neck so Jim can't complain. He's getting ramped up just fine.

The priestess halts at the base of the altar and holds out her arm to present it. There's a set of narrow stairs cut into the stone, curving back sharply into shadow. Not much of an improvement over the altar top, Jim thinks. Parallel bruises from the edges of the steps might be a cool souvenir but he's not looking forward to a crick in the back. Thankfully, he notices the latticework sphere that arches from the side of the altar and demarcates a semicircle in the grass at the foot of the steps. One attendant is setting out wide cushions on the ground inside and another two are draping a heavy cloth over the coral-like lattice, turning it into a dark, round little room.

"Is this acceptable?" The priestess asks.

"It looks beautiful, thank you," says Jim immediately. Pike is commanding officer but he literally put Jim in front so Jim will do the talking, thanks.

The priestess smiles with her eyes again and Pike sweeps his thumb, just once, on the nape of his neck. Jim considers the tentative _no_ to now be a tentative _yes_ because he's optimistic that way.

The three of them step into the enclosure and the priestess motions them into the corner already darkened by the heavy cloth. One of the attendants perched on the lattice gazes down at Jim and blinks just one eye, the leftmost one. Jim figures that to be this planet's version of either a wink or a smirk and he responds with both. He adds an eyebrow lift for good measure, enjoying the shift of the mottled skin along her legs.

"Hey, Captain Pike," Jim whispers, and maybe he's still looking at the attendant but he's leaning close to Pike and paying him plenty of attention. Jim lingers for a second on the pleasing contrast of Pike's bristly, short-trimmed hair and the downy shell of his ear.

"Hmm," says Pike. He turns his ear away from Jim's lips but doesn't fight the grip Jim has on his arm.

Jim can work this, no problem. "I just want to say...." He pauses for the tiniest of seconds, wondering if it's Pike's soap or shampoo that smells so nice. "I hope those pillows are machine-washable," he murmurs, then darts away before Pike's elbow can make contact with his ribcage.

Maybe it's the half-darkness, or the faint, spicy scent falling from the folds of the cloth, or the situation in general, but Pike's glare is a different creature than Jim has ever seen before. He's backed into a corner, feeling the press of the coral frame against one shoulder and the sun-warmed stone against the other, but he doesn't mind. There are worse traps to be caught in.

Jim grins. _Want me to shut up? Then make me._

Pike rolls his eyes—actually _rolls_ them—and turns away to glare suspiciously at the small ceramic pots the priestess is setting on the steps.

"I think I can guess what's in those," Jim says.

"Be quiet," Pike growls. Jim replays the sound in his head for a little while and amiably shuts his mouth.

The enclosure is dark now except for the light from the entrance where the attendant who winked at Jim is holding back the heavy cloth. One of the suns is wavering on the horizon like a bowl of snakes, all roiled and shimmery, and Pike looks especially nice against the sunset. He's glowing at the edges.

"You are aware of the physiological specifications of humans, right?" Pike asks, and waves a hand at the ceramic pots. "I trust those substances aren't harmful."

"Of course, of course," says the alien priestess. She smiles with her eyes, slitting them more than before. "I traveled for some time as an acolyte, and spent many happy weeks on your world."

Jim tilts his head, shifting his impression of her. Sure, now she's all polite surrealism, but at some point she was just a kid doing study abroad, snagging her elbows on passersby as she walked the streets of New York. Jim wishes he could have met her in a club, wishes he could watch the strobe light echo in all of her eyes and then lead her to a nook to find out what her skin feels like. He thinks it'd be smooth, like an apple.

"Ma'am," says Pike, "what, exactly, are we to do in this ritual?"

It's a good question to ask, but Jim gets the feeling that Pike isn't concerned with performing their duties correctly so much as getting out of them. That's rich coming from a guy who once came down on Jim pretty hard just for skipping class, but Jim is feeling easy this afternoon and will forgive him. Jim wants to knead away the rigidity in Pike's spine until he settles down and sighs.

The priestess bows her head and recites something in her own language, thrumming and clotted with consonants. She translates: "You must hallow this space with a mutual profusion of good feeling."

"Oh, good," says Pike. "I was worried it'd be something vague."

Jim coughs and pretends he isn't grinning. Pike shakes his head and gives Jim this sad, resigned look (which is sort of insulting, given the situation) and behind him, the priestess blinks her leftmost eye. That's _definitely_ a wink on this planet, Jim decides. The priestess and he are co-conspirators, now, so Jim's imagination meanders down a very pleasant avenue. Her arms are tapered, overlong, and would coil nicely around Pike's waist. Jim wonders if her citrus scent comes from her clothes or from her skin; if it will linger or intensify as she begins to sweat.

Pike is back to business. "So how do we know when this thing is over?" he asks. "Will there be an indication of our... profusion?" He winces as soon as he says it. Jim doesn't try to hold back a snigger this time but he does manfully restrain himself from making a joke about Kleenex.

"Yes, yes, an indication," says the priestess, and Pike's frown softens slightly. "Allow me a moment to prepare and I shall explain it to you."

Pike nods and steps back. Jim comes up to stand beside him as the priestess pulls a pale, spotted nut from the sash of her robes. The shell is fragile and crumbles at the careful urging of her fingers. It releases not a hard meat or kernel, but a darkish powder. The priestess, cradling the powder in one palm, says something in her own language and glides to the attendant at the entrance who produces a vial. The liquid in it glimmers briefly as it trickles onto the powder and when the women bend their heads to watch, their profiles merge into a heart-shaped silhouette.

The priestess moves back to the center of the room, slowly folding her palms together and beginning to rub them back and forth. The powder and liquid mix unevenly, growing clumpy in parts and runny in others. The priestess keeps working it between her palms. She shifts, throwing her hands into shadow, and Jim takes a closer look. He isn't sure for a second, but it's true: as the mixture evens out and clings to the graceful columns of her fingers, it begins to glow.

Pike sucks in a sudden breath. Jim glances up at him, boggles at the slightly raised eyebrow and the smile lurking in the corner of Pike's mouth. Jim is as impressed with a light-producing chemical reaction (which this must be) as the next guy with an inner eight-year-old, but a novelty lighting solution isn't reason enough for Pike to seem so sly. Jim shuffles closer to Pike and presses his fingers questioningly to his wrist.

Pike doesn't answer or spare a glance to Jim. Instead, he slides his hand up to lace their fingers together and Jim looks over at him with a bemused smile but he doesn't complain, oh no. Pike's hand is dry and warm and he's pressing gentle divots into the skin between Jim's knuckles. After a moment, Pike tugs at his hand and gestures back to the priestess. Obediently, Jim looks.

The sludge, a slate sort of color, is now speckled here and there with brilliant blue. The priestess brings her palms up to study it, tossing swaths of light into the ceiling's velvet clutches. "This is a lovely start," she says.

She tips the mixture into one hand and turns to the stone doorway around the stairs. "The ointment will draw energy from your emotional states," she explains, smearing a thick, gluey trail on the uneven stone. She then shifts her attention to the latticework above their heads, dabbing paste onto the rocky strands. "It will glow more brightly as your good feeling increases. At the moment of your profusion, it will grace your spirits with a fantastic reaction." She pauses in her work and looks at them, her hand curled over her head like a flower bud too heavy for its stem. "Is this acceptable?" she asks.

There is a hint of ritual to the phrase that Jim didn't catch the first time around. It feels natural to repeat his previous answer: "It's beautiful. Thank you." He speaks solemnly, meaningfully, hoping his sincerity bleeds through. Maybe he's just a wide-eyed offworlder, but there must exist an objective reality where she is a goddess painting the stars into the night.

Pike squeezes his hand. His smile, when Jim looks, is not so different from his smile when he sneaks up on Jim in the captain's chair. Pike often prevents him standing to attention with a hand upon his shoulder as if to say, _Don't get up, son. I know you have this covered._

The priestess ticks her head to the side in a nod and turns away from them, swinging from her double-jointed middle elbow as if it were a fulcrum. She trails her fingers along the ceiling, creating a few more strands of light as she wends her way to the entrance. "I wish you good proceedings in your task," she calls before the curtain falls shut behind her. Jim and Pike are left alone in a darkness broken only by the illuminated lacework hovering above them.

"Well," says Jim. He pauses to listen for sounds from outside: wind or voices or the snuffling of an animal, any small reminder that there is an entire planet outside this plush enclosure. All he hears is the pulse of blood beneath his skin. "I guess we should get started," he says quietly.

Pike hums noncommittally and steps forward to inspect the phosphorescent smear above the doorway. He wiggles his hand and Jim reluctantly lets go. "I think I used to play with this stuff as a kid," Pike says, and the curve of his smile is almost inky in the bluish light. "It's some kind of electro-sensitive material. I didn't realize it was naturally occurring, though." He dabs his fingertips into the smear, drawing the color out in short, curious strokes.

"So it'll work?" Jim asks as he plops down on a cushion to pull off his boots. "It will read our body chemistry?"

"In a crude manner, yes," says Pike. He sounds distracted when he adds, "It's not much more sophisticated than thermotropic novelty jewelry from the 20th century."

His doodle-strokes are lengthening, growing spirals, and Jim wonders if Pike has the same desire to write his name on the wall that Jim does. He decides that Pike is above such things, having long since forgotten the cultural sanctity of self-aggrandizing graffiti (though Jim noticed at the Academy that Pike took particular care of the shiny nameplate on his desk.)

Jim stands up from the cushion and pads over in bare feet, peeling off his shirts as he goes. He tosses them aside and they land somewhere—hopefully near to his boots—with a soft thump.

Pike turns at the noise. His eyes lock on Jim's bare chest and he's upset or excited or some murky melange of the two. Jim feels like he does before a fight: supple, poised to snap, a coiled spring made out of sinew.

"What are you doing?" Pike doesn't ask a question so much as issue a warning but Jim isn't worried. His captain varies like a cat. Push too far and he'll strike out, but sometimes Pike cannot be bothered to extend his claws.

"I'm beginning the ritual," Jim says. He reaches out and pulls Pike's hand from the wall, brings the glowing fingertips to his own skin.

Pike snatches his hand back and curls it into a fist. "Commander Kirk, we must exhaust all other options before resorting to such measures," he says sternly.

"Why?" Jim asks, almost laughing. There's a glimmer in the corner of his eye; three faint streaks are shining underneath his collarbone. "We're both hot, and we like each other. You do like me, right?" His voice drops at the end, still playful but also hard. _I dare you to say you don't._

Pike evades the taunt. "Yes, I do, but—"

"And I admire you enormously," Jim says. He's given up being embarrassed by sincerity, especially where his friends are concerned. "Having sex with you, sir, will be an honor."

Pike looks torn between growling again or laughing. Finally, he says with difficulty, "That's very flattering of you, Commander."

His expression ends up on a faint note of confusion and Jim likes that look, decides to incorporate it into the Frankenstein's monster of fantasies he is constructing. He imagines that Pike's hair is wet and tousled from a work-out; his chest is bare and sleep pants scoop teasingly beneath his hipbones (an image culled gleefully during an emergency briefing in Pike's quarters.)

"However, it still stands that what you are proposing is entirely inappropriate." Pike—the real one wearing clothes, not fantasy Pike—sighs. "I know you are skilled at problem solving, Kirk. You should have realized by now that there's an alternate solution."

"We don't need an alternate solution," Jim says. He's having trouble deciding what Pike's finely delineated abs would look like in this low lighting.

"Fine, I'll walk you through it," Pike says. "What are the requirements of the ritual?"

"We both orgasm," says Jim.

"No, Jim—that's an _inference_." Pike speaks quickly and a little loudly, truly irritated for the first time in this whole situation. "That's a cadet's mistake. What were the priestess's exact words?"

"She said, um," Jim squints, thinking. His face is flushing. "We need to have a 'mutual profusion of good feeling,'" he pronounces. He doesn't want to squirm but Pike makes him feel small sometimes, makes him want to prove himself.

"That's correct. Fortunately, the indication of that 'good feeling' will be provided by a material with which I am familiar," says Pike. "The obvious next step is to examine the information I have on this substance in order to determine all possible methods of provoking the needed reaction." He rubs the paste between his fingers again and Jim scowls. He wants Pike to touch him with those glowing fingers, leave a trail to show the world where he has been.

"We don't need all possible methods, we just need one," says Jim. "You know what always puts me in a good mood?"

Pike huffs in exasperation. "We are _not_ going to have sex, Kirk," he snaps.

"Why the hell not?" Jim yells, because he's shirtless and Pike isn't, because he wants this so badly and he knows Pike does, too; who wouldn't? Jim isn't being cheap or lurid. He loves this man. Bones would understand what Jim means, would be able to explain it to Captain Pike or take his place. Bones is fairly traditional about the line between friendship and sex but even so, they've spent enough nights crumpled in a dozy heap on the quad while shuttles chased the stars above them. Then they shipped off into the black and, well. Once a man has reached his hands into your viscera and traced the furrows of your heart, isn't sex a natural variation? If Bones were here instead of Pike, they'd already be a sweaty mess.

Jim carried Captain Pike from the _Narada_ with one arm around his waist and another hand around his wrist. Jim doesn't see how this is any different.

Pike raises a hand to rub his forehead, then stops himself short and uses the non-glowing hand instead. "Kirk," he says, sounding very tired. "There are regulations about fraternization between officers—"

"Those regulations are ridiculous," Jim says. "Can't you see that this is the perfect way to get around them?"

"Get around—Kirk, you shouldn't be looking for loopholes. You need to be toeing the line."

Jim catches the faint emphasis and stiffens. "I need to be toeing the line. _I_ do." He crosses his arms across his chest, not caring if it smudges the glowing lines beneath his collarbone. They've faded so much that he can barely see them anyway. "I really appreciate the special treatment, sir."

"I see to it that everyone under my command follows regulations," Pike grounds out. Jim glares back mulishly and Pike closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Kirk, consider the manner in which you entered into the Academy and your current position under my command. Throw in this flimsy premise for a sexual tryst and people will wonder exactly how you rose through the ranks so quickly."

Jim knows he is talked about. He knows that there's a certain cautionary demeanor when the Admiralty examine him and that even low-ranking non-coms get a certain slant to their eyebrows when they see him but whatever. Jim can prove himself in any situation. "That's bullshit," he says and staunchly ignores the undertone of hurt.

Pike sighs. "Yes, it is, but the Admiralty will paint a picture—"

"I made it through the Academy on my own merits," Jim says hotly. "I was smart enough, strong enough, and determined enough. That was all me, sir. _I didn't need you._ "

"Fine," says Pike, and sets his jaw.

Jim pauses, forces himself to take a breath. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded," he mumbles.

"I understand precisely what you meant," says Pike.

Jim stares at Pike for a long moment, willing the room to explode as a diversion or for time to reverse itself.

Pike isn't meeting his gaze. His face is turned away, eye sockets near-black smudges in sudden darkness. The paint trails on the ceiling and the wall have faded to a dull slate color; there's not a speck of brilliant blue in sight.

The silhouette of his shoulders neatens as Pike lifts his head. "Starfleet officers are expected to comport themselves with dignity. The behavior of captains especially must be above reproach. I shouldn't have to remind you of that, Kirk." Irritation is in his voice again, colored with a disappointment that makes Jim want to punch something.

"Yes, sir," Jim says. His voice is too flat. The darkness is a curled-up cat and his voice is rubbing its fur in the wrong direction. Jim ignores that and makes a show of looking up and around them at the depressing half-light. "So what do we do about this, Captain? Do you have an alternate solution?"

Pike just faces him for a few long seconds, unsettling Jim with his death's head eye sockets. "I'm going to wing it," he says. "Come here." Pike holds out his hand to Jim expectantly.

"Starfleet captains don't 'wing it,'" Jim says sourly. "Since they're supposed to be above reproach and everything."

The heel of Pike's palm is glossed and curving like the inside of a conch shell. "Some days, Jim, that's all we can do."

It sounds halfway like an apology but Jim thinks Pike is blowing smoke up his ass. He's only saying that to momentarily quiet the self-doubt that roils in Jim's gut. Self-doubt is Jim's internal combustion engine, propelling him forward with a speed he can't quite control. Jim likes it breakneck so he'll do without the platitudes, thanks.

But even though Jim doesn't trust the words, Pike is reaching out to touch him and that's what he has wanted all day.

He steps forward into Pike's space, smoothing his hands down Pike's chest and searching for the fine indentations of his ribs beneath his shirts. He trusts Pike not to rebuff him now. They're both bruised and embracing is the best way Jim knows how to make or accept an apology.

Pike allows it. He leans himself, slim and tough, against Jim. One hand sweeps across the bare skin of his shoulder blades and the other cards through his hair with a gentleness that does not entirely surprise. Pike cradles Jim's head as if he were an infant.

"It's getting brighter," Pike comments. "Almost back to the initial levels." He leans his head back to look and Jim can see his face better now, the shadows in the furrows of his mouth growing soft and thin. The light feathers into his eyes and instead of empty sockets, they are cats-eye marbles reflecting the criss-cross of the glowing ceiling.

"That's great," says Jim. He leans forward the little bit he needs to suckle at the curl of jaw beneath Pike's ear.

Pike grunts, startled but hopefully not displeased.

Jim smiles and presses his teeth just so against the bone.

Pike lifts his hand from Jim's back and curls it firmly around a shoulder, pulling Jim closer. The current clutch is comforting but that hand had previously been drawing lazy sigils along the spine and it can go right back to doing that if Pike wants. Really, Jim won't mind. All he asks is that Pike run his fingers through the paste again before things progress too far.

Jim trails his mouth along the weathered skin, seeking Pike's lips, but the other man moves and Jim ends up in the faint hollow above his chin. He slips his hands underneath the regulation gold tunic and tries again but Pike eludes him.

Pike drops little pecks on Jim's cheek and jaw, roving about with purpose. Jim starts to protest—this is all very nice, but tongue would be better—when Pike puts his mouth right up to Jim's ear and begins to talk.

He can see the greatness in Kirk, (Pike says,) the capacity for compassion and maturity needed in a captain. He has philosophical inclination but also impeccable physical instincts. Jim will grow to be one of the best captains that Starfleet has ever seen and no-one will believe he once was a bloody punk draped across a barroom table. Pike wants desperately to see that potential realized and to have played some part in it, but even now he is so, so proud of Jim.

Jim doesn't know what the hell kind of trick this is. He's startled by the words and unable to process their meanings. He pushes away but Pike rallies by holding Jim's head with both hands. "I don't care how difficult this is for you to hear. Open your eyes." His tone is soft but the command is unmistakable.

Jim obeys but squeezes his eyes shut the second he opens them, startled and pained that the room is so bright. He squints carefully for the second go-around and Pike is watching him with a half-smile, thumbs stroking the skin beneath Jim's ears.

"Jim, do you believe everything I just said to you?" Pike asks.

Jim should answer 'no.' He can't possibly believe the urgent ramble (it's too expressive, far looser than Pike's usual manner of speech) but he knows that Pike wants him to say yes. Jim is confused by the brightness in the room because he feels awful, doesn't he? He feels like he does before a punch lands, before he hits the ground from a fumbled leap, before he orgasms from sex so rough he's not sure he likes it. There's nothing for him to do but wait for impact.

At times like this, Jim likes to go full throttle.

"Yes," he says. "Yes," he says again, and means it. His captain's pride is like a physical thing inside him, as warm and solid as the body Jim is clutching.

Pike grins at him, so full of relief ( _Why relief?_ Jim wonders) and steps back, dropping his hands. He looks like he's underwater someplace tropical, every crease and crinkle of him lit up. His skin and clothes are glimmering with thousands of refractions.

"I told you there was an alternate solution," Pike says.

"You son of a bitch!" Jim blurts out, half admiration and half disbelief.

Pike throws his head back to laugh. His laughter expands like rich, warm air in the velveted room and his eyes are glittering slits that Jim can't look away from.

The ceiling crackles and Pike quiets, stepping back instinctively like Jim is doing. All over the cavern, the white paste is exploding with a morass of quiet pops and sending bursts of sparkles raining down. Some settle in Pike's hair like a halo.

"I think that's our indication of profusion," Pike says. "Apparently what makes you happy is insulting your commanding officer." There should be a hint of reproach in his tone but instead, Pike looks as smug as Jim has ever seen him. "Are you more pissed off that you didn't have sex, or that I outsmarted you?" he asks.

Jim honestly doesn't know the answer to that and isn't sure that either option reflects well on him, so he stays silent.

Pike gentles his smirk and squeezes Jim's shoulder. "Stop sulking and put on your boots, Commander."

Jim plops down and snatches his boots, sending up baleful glares that only seem to delight the captain. In the time it takes to pull on one boot Jim has formulated six responses and dismissed all of them as being inappropriate at best and grounds for court-martial at worst. By the time he has his second boot on, he's decided to go ahead with the most egregious one anyway.

He holds out his hand for Pike to help him up. The ruse is transparent and ordinarily Jim wouldn't expect Pike to fall for it, but he can still feel the ghosts of fingers in his hair. He's confident he will be indulged.

All it takes is a tug on Pike's strong, warm grasp and a kick to the back of his knees to send him in a tumble to the overlarge pillows. Jim clambers on top of him in a flash, settling hips along hips and dodging Pike's instinctive punch. On the downswing, Pike's hand settles automatically on the bare skin between his shoulder blades and Jim is more pleased by that than he thinks he should be. He flexes his shoulders just to feel the fingertips slide.

Pike looks ready to yell so Jim cups his hand over Pike's forehead to keep him still and sets to work. The initial kiss is close-mouthed, lips pressing down like a thumb against a door-pad, and then Pike opens up. He's slippery-hot and tastes faintly of toothpaste, tongue furious enough for Jim to suspect he really caught him by surprise.

Pike kisses back for the space of three, four, five breaths drawn loudly through the nose before he bites down on Jim's lower lip. He exerts a painful, steadily increasing pressure that finally makes Jim pull away. Pike's mouth is smeared with spit that gleams in the light when he asks, "Are you finished?"

"Um, no?" Jim says, and gently rolls his hips to prove the point.

Pike snorts. "You'll live," he says, and starts to push Jim away.

"Wait, did you mean all that stuff you said?" Jim asks, thinking that if he pretends to emotional vulnerability then Pike will let him lie on top of him for a few moments longer.

"I doubt your ego needs bolstering," Pike says. He pushes again and Jim shifts to the side but settles his leg firmly across Pike's thighs.

"It just seems like you were only thinking about accomplishing the mission," Jim says with a soft, worried voice that sounds far less calculated than it is. He widens his eyes a fraction and hopes the bright ceiling illuminates the blue. "You could have said anything you thought would work."

"Whereas your actions here are entirely conscionable," Pike points out. He is not impressed with Jim's well-practiced methods.

Jim grins, easy and wicked, and makes no attempt to defend his good name.

Pike stares at him incomprehensibly for a moment and Jim notices the fine spray of light along his nose and cheekbones. It clumps here and there like iridescent freckles. He rubs his thumb along a patch of it and discovers that it's dry, a shimmery powder instead of paste. He imagines a factory where eyeshadow is manufactured by an assembly line of people saying nice things to each other.

Pike quirks his mouth in a wry, slightly sad smile. "I meant every word," he says. "Now get off me."

Jim acquiesces but not before he plants a final closed-mouth kiss, like locking the door when you leave a room.

Pike stands up and drifts toward the entrance, back turned to Jim as he wipes his mouth and straightens his uniform. "Make yourself decent, Commander," he says, carefully and with stern double meaning. "We have more business to attend to today."

"Aye, Captain," says Jim, and reaches for his shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> From a kinkmeme prompt: [Kirk/Pike aliens made them do it](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink/9715.html?thread=28959987#t28959987). [**rubynye**](http://rubynye.livejournal.com/) also filled the prompt with her lovely [Comparative Physiology](http://rubynye.livejournal.com/428153.html), to which this fic owes much.


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